


Strictly Speaking

by pippen2112



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex Toys, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Eames’s defense, it wasn’t entirely his fault.  Yes, he should have left well enough alone as far as Arthur was concerned.  Yes, he should have thought before investing in the security camera and planting it in Arthur’s room.  Yes, he should have shown an ounce of restraint.</p>
<p>Strictly speaking, Arthur started it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strictly Speaking

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on the Inception Kink Meme for this prompt: http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/20092.html?thread=48289148

In Eames’s defense, it wasn’t entirely his fault. Yes, he should have left well enough alone as far as Arthur was concerned. Yes, he should have thought before investing in the security camera and planting it in Arthur’s room. Yes, he should have shown an ounce of restraint.

Strictly speaking, Arthur started it.

~ | ~ | ~

Strictly speaking, Arthur brought it up.

“Snyder’s working a job in Rome.”

Eames quirked a brow at Arthur’s phone greeting and idly patted What’s-his-name’s hair. Normally, last night’s fuck was out the door by ten AM, but this blondie was being persistent, and honestly, who in their right mind said no to morning head. Though he’s not one for relationships, he never turned down sex.... Well, there was the one time in Belarus, but in his defense, that guy was a scary motherfucker.

“Doesn’t Snyder prefer working with the fairer sex? He was working with Cassandra last I heard of him.”

On the other end of the line, he heard Arthur roll his eyes. It was palpable in the static silence. “She’s gone off grid. Screwing over Saito will do that to you.”

Eames chuckled, and What’s-his-name slid his mouth down to Eames’s balls. The forger smirked mirthlessly. What’s-his-name was so young, so eager to please. It was a shame really, because regardless of how good his head was, What’s-his-name was still gonna end up tossed out when he’s done. Eames was an ass in that way. He didn’t have a problem with it.

“If you needed a forger, darling, you could have just asked,” Eames teased. “I’ll be available at the end of next week.”

“Good,” Arthur replied tersely. “I’ll email you the details.”

“Lovely. Anything else you need of me?”

“Only an improvement in your tastes.”

Eames paused. “I beg your pardon?”

“You should find a more skilled fuck.”

He didn’t know how to respond, but he could hear the disappointment in the point man’s voice. Luckily Arthur didn’t need him to talk. 

“If you can form a complete sentence, he’s not working hard enough.”

As if on cue, What’s-his-face worked a lazy hand over Eames’s shaft and grinned up at him. God, he hated incompetence.

He hung up quickly. What’s-his-face was out the door in less than ten minutes. Eames trudged into the kitchen for his morning tea. As his cuppa steeped, he grimaced at the thought that Arthur knew. Eames knew that it was, frankly, none of Arthur’s business who he did or didn’t sleep with, but that didn’t stop the slight twinge in his chest.

Eames pushed the feelings aside. He already knew this job was going to be a nightmare.

~ | ~ | ~

Strictly speaking, Arthur was a bit of a bitch.

Not that Eames held that against him. Though the Fischer job proved they could work together given the right incentives, more often than not, they butted heads, especially when Eames found himself occupying Arthur’s guest bedroom.

“Try to keep it down after ten,” Arthur instructed as Eames shoved his suitcase into a corner.

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to disturb your beauty sleep, love.”

Scowling, Arthur crossed his arms. “Just clean up after yourself, keep out of my life, and we’ll have no problems.”

Eames smirked quickly. He loved seeing Arthur riled. “Now that you’ve pissed on your metaphorical fire plug, is there anything else you need me to know? You cry yourself to sleep in the evenings or that you’ve run out of batteries for your vibrator?”

With that said, Arthur stormed off to his room and slammed the door behind him. Eames took the opportunity to catch a quick nap. He wondered if twice his usual share will be worth it.

~ | ~ | ~

Strictly speaking, Arthur never opened up.

In the two weeks he’d been rooming with the point man, Eames had learned one very important thing: Arthur was, above all else, an impenetrable box. Eames always thought that the professional, distanced façade Arthur wore on the job was just that, a façade. Instead, he found that Arthur has the world’s greatest poker face. He was practically unflappable. The only time he heard anything close to a laugh was when Arthur was watching some God awful American telly on the local station and snickered at a translation error.

He’d never seen Arthur smile.

In fact, all Eames has seen Arthur do was wake early, drink copious amounts of coffee, go to work, and spend the rest of the time locked in his room. And Eames knew he was being just a tiny bit paranoid, but he couldn’t get over the feeling that he was going to wake up one morning to Arthur shoving a gun in his mouth and blowing his brains out.

He should have tried talking to Arthur, but frankly, Eames couldn’t use his mouth around the point man without expelling a sardonic barb because he loved ruffling feathers far too much, and Arthur did give the best reactions. 

So, instead of behaving like a grownup, he picked the lock to Arthur’s room and took it in. The walls were painted a dusty blue, and the bed, nightstand, desk, and bookshelf were made of dark mahogany. A print of The Scream hung on the far wall. The bookshelf was filled with hardback copies of best sellers. Eames surveyed the titles before snagging The Partner.

Instead of working that day, he hollowed out the book and inserted one of the wireless cameras he occasionally used to spy on marks. He knew he shouldn’t, but he returned the book to the shelf so that it had a clear view of the entire room.

He also planted a bug under the bedside lamp. For good measure.

~ | ~ | ~

Strictly speaking, Arthur could have backed down.

“Any news on who I’ll be playing?” Eames asked the next night as he fried an egg for dinner.

Arthur shook his head as he typed at the table. “The client’s giving Snyder the run-around. Won’t give him enough information to co on. Paranoid prick.”

Something caught in Eames’s chest at the comment, but he pushed it down and flipped the egg. He’d been twitchy this entire job, mostly because he didn’t know what he needed to be working on. You could only do so much general research before you had to start on specifics.

“Is there anything you need help with?” Eames asked offhandedly. At this point, he just needed something to occupy himself.

The typing suddenly stopped. Eames glanced toward the table. Arthur’s eyes stared fixedly at the screen, but his pale cheeks flushed brightly. But, the point man blinked, and a second later, he was typing furiously. His eyes were set firmly and narrowed tightly.

Taken aback, Eames asked, “Arthur?”

“I’m fine, Mr. Eames. I have a job to do, and I’d appreciate you doing yours.”

Eames quirked a brow. “Pardon me,” he snapped. “I just thought I’d offer since I have no bloody idea what the fuck I’m supposed to be doing.”

“Do your damn research and make a decision,” Arthur retorted.

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” blurted Eames.

Arthur’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He snapped his laptop closed and practically stomped off toward his room, slamming the door behind him.

Eames glared at the door, then at the frying pan. The egg was burned. That was a good thing because he wasn’t hungry anymore. He scraped the egg into the trash and put the frying pan in the sink. He rushed down the hall to his room and pulled up the feed in Arthur’s room. If Arthur’s going to pull something, now he was in the mood to do it.

When the stream finally loaded, Eames saw the last thing he’d ever expected.

~ | ~ | ~

Strictly speaking, Arthur shoved the dildo up his own ass.

Well, eventually he did, but that was after he’d given it a blow job that would make professionals jealous, and after he’d pinched his nipples and fondled his balls, and after he’d removed a rather daunting black plug from his ass, and after he’d bent over the foot of his bed, and after he’d stripped himself with ruthless efficiency.

Now, he was thrusting the frighteningly large toy into his ass, humping back eagerly, and grinding his swollen cock into the bed. 

And from the safety of his room, Eames watched with morbid curiosity as the lean muscles of Arthur’s back tighten and he came across his bedspread. It was only when Arthur came down off his post-coital high and started cleaning up that Eames realized that he was hard in his pants, harder than he’d been in recorded history. 

After the fact, Eames blamed the lack of blood in his head for this decision. He believed that he only found the irony of it hilarious, that he was laughing at the stark contrast between the buttoned-up Arthur he knew and the wanton Arthur he witnessed.

As Eames saved the video file to his hard drive, he knew he’d just been handed the best blackmail material ever. He should not be this excited about it. He should mind the guild blooming in his chest, but he pushed it away.

~ | ~ | ~

Strictly speaking, Arthur was being a prat.

A much larger prat than he usually was both at work and at home. He wasn’t satisfied with any aspect of the job. The layouts were simplistic, the research wasn’t thorough, and the forge was “too ingenuine”. Whatever the fuck that meant.

Eames knew news of the taped wank session would shut Arthur up, but every time his roommate got too exacting about hammering out details, Eames pushed down the urge to brag about the video. It was never the right time to bring it up.

The extraction had to be delayed yet another week because they’d missed the first grab. The mark had gotten away. That evening, Arthur holed up in his room while Eames watched some Italian news program in the living room. A rather large part of him wanted to pull up the video stream and watch Arthur beat off his frustration, but a disgustingly small yet powerful voice in his head warned him against it. He hated how convincing that little voice was.

At around midnight, just as Eames was turning off the telly, Arthur wandered out of his room toward the kitchen wearing only a pair of blousy pajama pants. Eames did his best not to watch Arthur’s pale, tense shoulders as he puttered restlessly around the kitchen, but that was a losing battle. Without turning toward him, Arthur snapped, “Do you need something, Mr. Eames?”

Eames sighed as he stood from the small sofa. “Not particularly, darling. Just dazing.”

“Maybe you should daze after you’ve locked the forge. The voice still needs work,” Arthur said, his words dripping his frustration.

“Worse things,” Eames retorted. “Particularly since you couldn’t grab the mark.”

Every muscle in Arthur’s back tensed, but when he turned toward Eames, his face was an almost blank slate, except for his tight eyes. Eames smirked at that. So the unflappable Arthur couldn’t control every aspect of his physique. How lovely.

“If you had been tailing the mistress properly, the mark wouldn’t have known someone was following them and the job would be done now.”

Eames’s eyes narrowed. He knew that Arthur was right, that projecting his frustrations onto Eames was in every way justifiable. He understood the concept, but it didn’t stop him from retaliating. 

“It’s impossible to tail that woman inconspicuously. If you could dislodge that mammoth stick from your ass, you’d see that.”

“I do not have a stick up my ass,” Arthur replied through clenched teeth.

“No, I suppose not. I think the layman’s term for what’s stuck there is an anal plug.”

Arthur froze, his dark eyes wide with surprise and terror. Eames sneered, knowing he’d caught the point man off guard.

“Or have you already removed it and fucked yourself with the world’s largest dildo. That purple monstrosity. It says a lot about you, Arthur, that you take that thing up your ass as often as you can and are still the most keyed up individual I’ve had the misfortune of knowing.”

Eames knew he should have stopped. He knew the world leaking from his lips were cruel. Still, he didn’t realize how out of line he was until Arthur visibly shrank, his face now pale and his eyes glossy, and fled to his room. He didn’t realize what he’d said until Arthur reemerged a minute later in a t-shirt and sneakers and literally ran for the front door, jerking it open and slamming it behind him.

Only once the silence had returned did Eames flinch at his own callousness and realize that he’d fucked up. Bad.

~ | ~ | ~

Strictly speaking, Arthur should have invested in a gag.

Eames tried to apologize the next morning, but Arthur must have come and gone before he’d awoken. When he walked into the unlit kitchen that morning, he felt his heart sink lower.

At work, Arthur hadn’t let him get a single word in edgewise. His mindset was focused on the job, but Eames could see in the stiffness of his pose and in the fleetingness of their eye contact that Arthur still felt the throbbing wound of humiliation. Eames hated that.

So, it was no surprise that he found himself stalking into Arthur’s room that evening and retrieving the camera, dismantling it and leaving the broken remains on Arthur’s bedside table as a piece offering. 

In his room, Eames opened the folder he’d saved the video in and prepared to delete it, when another file caught his eye, an audio file. He had forgotten about the bug entirely and was about to delete it when, once again, curiosity got the better of him.

Opening the file, he was met with a long silence and the dull murmur of upraised voices in the other room. The door slammed. Panting. The rustle of clothes falling to the ground. A moan. Arthur’s moan. The soft slick sound of skin rubbing against skin. An abrupt pause. More panting. A soft suction sound, coupled with a long groan and a pop: the anal plug. Another moan, sharper this time, more urgent. The squeaking of bedsprings and Arthur’s pants. Soft, fluttery breaths. A keen. A sigh. 

“Eames...”

He froze and spun toward his door, only to find it empty. Arthur wasn’t standing behind him, saying his name to catch his attention. Arthur was...had...

“Oh fuck!”

He spend the next ten minutes palming himself while listening to Arthur wank and call out his name at regular intervals, and after he’d come in his fucking pants, he felt a leaden weight sink over his chest. He was fucked.

~ | ~ | ~

Strictly speaking, Arthur was being impossible.

In the course of the week it had taken to complete the job, Eames had tried to talk to Arthur at least a hundred times, tried to apologize and repair the damage, and Arthur had side-stepped him a hundred times, talking about the job every time. He understood why Arthur didn’t want to talk about it. Aside from the sheer humiliation of being caught wanking, Eames had kicked Arthur’s proverbial puppy in the reveal. He knew it would take more than just an apology to repair the damage

Eames should have known to stop trying when Arthur kicked him out of the job’s dream by leaving him precariously balanced on his tiptoes with a noose around his neck. But that would have been the smart thing to do.

When he got back to the apartment that night, Eames moved his laptop into the living room and set it on sofa, with the video and audio files ready to be deleted. Arthur had gone to the warehouse to tie up the job’s loose ends, but he would come back here before leaving tomorrow. At least, Eames hoped he would. Otherwise, his plan would be fucked. 

He figured he had one sure way to square things with Arthur, and regardless of how recklessly stupid it was, he wasn’t ready to give up on Arthur.

With sure hands, Eames undressed. He folded his clothes slowly and placed them in a pile on the floor. Breathing deeply to steady his nerves, he placed a folded piece of paper atop the keyboard and retrieved a roll of duct tape from the “Random Shit” drawer in the kitchen. 

He knelt on the living room rug and tore two square of tape and prematurely winced as he pressed them to his nipples. He quickly fixed a long strip over his mouth. Finally, he unwound about a meter-long strip and bound his wrists behind his back (he’d amazed himself upon accomplishing the task).

He knew it was a stupid risk to take, that Arthur could easily blow out his brains or simply leave him there, bound, gagged and naked for anyone to find. He knew all that, but Arthur was bloody impossible and this was the best solution he could come up with.

So there he stayed, his knees starting to burn, his mouth steadily drying, and his cock standing proudly. 

As an afterthought, Eames prayed to any and every divine being that Arthur didn’t castrate him.

~ | ~ | ~

Strictly speaking, Arthur was impatient.

Not that Eames expected him to be patient. But he had hoped for a more polite greeting than having the tape roughly yanked off his left nipple, jolting him awake.

Arthur stood over him, the square of tape in one hand, the note in the other. He looked...well, Eames couldn’t describe how he looked. His eyes were slightly tight and his mouth was pursed, but no tension rested in his neck or shoulders. Eames smiled weakly behind the gag.

“What are you playing at?” Arthur asked in a low, level voice as he lifted the note and read:

“ ‘Dear Arthur. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I am genuinely sorry. For everything. I didn’t think before I spoke and I deeply regret everything I said. Though I take perverse joy in ruffling your feathers, I have nothing but respect for you professionally and personally. I know I’ve done irreparable damage to our relationship, I hope you can find some solace in this and maybe find it in your heart to forgive me.’”

Arthur paused, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips before he continued.

“ ‘The folder on my laptop is ready to be deleted. There isn’t another copy of the file, though I don’t think you’ll believe me. Therefore, I offer myself as collateral. An eye for an eye, so to speak.’”

The note contained more, but Arthur folded it and slipped it into his pocket. He folded his hands in front of him and then lifted his dark gaze to meet Eames’s eyes.

“This was incredibly stupid, Mr. Eames. I can’t tell you how many different ways I had thought about killing you, and that was before you presented such an easy target.”

Arthur’s voice was deeper than usual, wavering slightly when he couldn’t control it. His eyes were cold, unyielding, the same look he had after pulling the trigger. Eames swallowed convulsively, wondering for the first time if he’d chosen the wrong solution to this problem.

The point man strode around him, toward the kitchen and out of his line of sight. He hear the rustle of fabric and the metallic sound of something heavy landing on wood: Arthur’s Glock. “I wonder how long it would take them to find you,” he mused from behind Eames, releasing the gun’s magazine and checking the ammo. 

“If a neighbor heard the shot, it would take the police inside fifteen minutes to get here.” He reinserted the magazine and cocked the gun. “Depending on the shot, you might make it.”

“If no one heard,” Arthur hissed as he softly screwed on a silencer, “it would take a week before someone complained about the smell.” 

Eames’s eyes shot wide and his stomach dropped. He had been so certain this was the way to amend things with Arthur. Now, he was very unsure. He swallowed as he heard the point man’s slow steps and felt the temperature change when Arthur sidled up behind him. Something blunt nudged against the nape of his neck. 

He closed his eyes and tried to ease his breath, tried to calm himself, but he felt his shoulders start to tremble. He was so fucked. And yet, regardless of his fear, his blood pulsed heavily in his veins, and his cock twitched. 

Arthur’s breathing shifted in that moment, and Eames felt his eyes dart down to the naked organ. He studied it from afar for a moment before setting the gun down on the sofa and strolling back in front of Eames. He lazily extended his foot and lightly tracing the forger’s penis with his shoe. He smirked mirthlessly. “God, you’re gagging for it,” he muttered bitterly. “Such a slut for anyone with a cock and the time.”

Eames felt his posture stiffen and made an involuntary noise behind the gag. Sure, he fucked around, but this was by far the most extreme ends he’d gone to without the promise of sex. Yet, he was rock hard. Fuck, was Arthur right?

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he missed the movement of Arthur reaching down and tearing off the tape at his right nipple. His eyes watered, and he panted at the mix of pain and pleasure surging through his body. 

Eames focused on Arthur, though his face still betrayed nothing. Instead, his eyes watched Eames closely, taking every small detail into account as he knelt down in front of Eames. With deft fingers, Arthur slowly pulled the tape gag away from Eames’s mouth. 

Reflexively, Eames stretched his mouth wide after being closed for so long, but his mind was lost elsewhere, drifting in a dark place he’d never experienced. His limbs felt calm and his face numb. 

He didn’t remember seeing Arthur move, but a moment later, his wrists were free and he felt a pair of arms encircling his torso. His vision blurred and tremors shook his body. 

He was only distantly aware of a comforting hand on his shoulder, and low comforting words in his ear. He barely remembered being guided to his room, or being tucked into bed, or Arthur’s wrist slipping from his grasp as he slipped into unconsciousness.

~ | ~ | ~

Strictly speaking, Arthur assumed too much.

When Eames woke the next morning, limbs heavy and sore, he found a scrap of paper on the nightstand. Though his vision was blurry, he could just make it out:

We are even. You’re an idiot. – A

As he drifted off to sleep, Eames curled around the cold, empty space in his bed. He didn’t realize he was tearing up.

~ | ~ | ~

Strictly speaking, Arthur was an idiot.

According to Eames, he was an idiot in Rome, he was an idiot in Budapest (that job nearly went pear shaped), and he was an idiot in London (though a very brilliant idiot as far as the Weinstein job was concerned). Of course, this assessment was based predominately on rumor as the two hadn’t spoken since that night six months prior. 

Not that Eames minded. He’d taken two jobs with Ofelia, a fresh-faced point whose methods would give the aforementioned sharp-dressed idiot a run for his money. And, of course, Arthur had made professional adjustments as well. The only thing that saved the job in Budapest was, according to sources, a stocky Russian with a flexible face. Not that Eames cared, mind you. If Arthur wanted to traipse about the globe with some second-rate forger with more than a few mob connections, it was his own bloody business. It wasn’t like Eames was losing sleep over it. Or regularly forgetting to eat meals. Or shower. 

It shouldn’t have surprised him when Ofelia showed up at his doorstep with a week’s worth of toiletries and a freshly laundered set of clothes and stated that they were going to dinner. And it shouldn’t have surprised him that she’d selected a dimly lit restaurant with a romantic atmosphere that made him feel like a voyeur. And it shouldn’t have surprised him when a firm hand settled on his shoulder and a very familiar voice spoke, “I didn’t think you cared for Paris, Mr. Eames. Too ‘French’ I think you said.”

None of this should have surprised Eames. But, all at once, his stomach began to churn as the hot knot of humiliation in his chest tensed. God, he hated surprises.

“Arthur, darling,” he purred, laying on charm too thickly to be sincere. “I’d ask business or pleasure, but we both know what a stick in the mud you are.”

“I see you still don’t distinguish between them,” Arthur retorted flatly, his gaze briefly flitting to Ofelia. His cheeks flushed and his jaw tensed. “You never fail to astound me.”

“Missed me that much, have you? Lord knows you could do with a good astounding.” Eames couldn’t hide the venom in his tone.

Arthur’s eyes flashed toward him, one moment fiery but the next masked. His brow furrowed. “Yes,” he replied stoicly. “I missed the stress headaches and the sexual harassment and the desire to put a bullet in my brain.”

With a stiff nod, Arthur strode off toward the exit. Eames stared after him--half transfixed by his ass, half puzzled over if the response had been sarcastic or sincere. As usual, he couldn’t tell.

The next moment, Ofelia reached across the table and smaked him on the back of the head.

“Ow,” he yelped. “What was that for?”

“God, you two are idiots,” she retorted

“I’m not an idiot.”

She quirked a brow at him. He leaned back in his chair and mimicked the expression. For several moments, neither of them moved.

“Well,” Ofelia began, “go after him, you moron.”

“What?”

She rolled her eyes. “If you need to ask, then you don’t deserve him.”

 

“Deserve him?” Eames scoffed. “He hates me, and he’s got every reason to.”

“He doesn’t hate you. If Arthur hated you, you’d have a bullet lodged in your brain by now. Even I’ve heard the stories.”

Eames opened his mouth to retort, but he couldn’t supply a counter point. He closed his mouth again, but didn’t move. Ofelia sighed. “You’re more stubborn than he is. That says something.”

Eames didn’t move. 

“He’ll only just now have his coat. He won’t get a taxi. He’ll walk.”

Eames didn’t move.

“Go sort this out like grown men. You’re too old to be having a hissy fit.”

“Who are you? My mother?” Eames snapped.

“You know I’m right,” Ofelia remarked, laying out a few crisp notes to pay the bill. “And if you don’t go, you know you’ll regret it.”

“You can’t know that,” Eames retorted.

“You aren’t that difficult to riddle out,” she replied as she stood. “Neither of you are. You’re just both thick enough to not realize.”

As she strode away from the table, Eames’s head perked up. “To not realize what?”

Instead of an answer, she gave him a cryptic smile and disappeared out the door into the city street.

~ | ~ | ~

Strictly speaking, it might have been a little bit Eames’s fault.

Because Arthur didn’t make him wander through the city into the early hours of the morning, or take every turn toward the address he knew but never visited, or walk up three flights of stairs and knock at the door marked 302 A. So, Eames knew he couldn’t blame Arthur for that; he could, however, blame Arthur for pulling a gun on him when he answered the door.

“What are you doing here?” Arthur hissed, voice alert but eyes heavy with sleep.

Eames shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at his feet. “I’m sorry.”

He felt Arthur’s eyes bore into his skull, but Eames didn’t know how to respond.

“You’re an idiot,” Arthur murmured, lowering his gun.

“You’ve made that amply apparent,” Eames replied as he looked up. Arthur’s mouth and shoulders remained tense. “It’s hard not to be one around you.”

Arthur furrowed his brow, his silent question written here.

Eames sighed. “You’re un-fucking-readable. You don’t react to anything except when I annoy you too much, and then it’s just idiocy begetting more idiocy until you run off and I get properly pissed and pickup the first ponce that tries hitting on me. That’s what life was for me: fucking strangers and annoying you, because they don’t care enough to be ruffled, and you never seemed interested in uncrossing your legs. So, I’m sorry that the two never alighned, or that I stuck around too long when you didn’t want me, or---“

Arthur silenced Eames with a claiming kiss, grabbing him by the lapels of this tweed jacket, pulling him inside, and kicking the door shut.

Arthur punctuated each word with a kiss as his fingers flew over the buttons of Eames’s shirt. “You’re. A. Moron. An egotistical. Dense. Obnoxious. Prat.”

“You certainly know how to compliment, darling,” Eames retored.

Arthur nipped at his lower lip as he pushed the newly opened shirt off with one hand and unzipped Eames’s trousers with the other. Dropping to his knees as he undressed Eames, Arthur quipped, “You make it so easy.”

Stripped of his clothing, Eames gaped as Arthur tugged off his pajamas and revealed vast stretches of pale skin. He laid a tentative hand on Arthur’s him, and his thumb brushed across the smooth skin. Arthur stilled for a moment, and Eames’s eyes darted to his face.

“This alright?” Eames asked, lifting his hand.

In response, Arthur gave a small laugh, a low not from the back of his throat, half-scoff and half-chuckle. A small smile touched the corners of his mouth and crinkled his eyes. “Yes, it’s very much alright.”

Eames felt his heart skip a beat. Blushing slightly, he snarked, “Okay, because if not, I can leave you with that purple monstrosity of yours. I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.”

Arthur promptly punched the forger in the shoulder. Then he pulled Eames into bed.

In the morning, Eames woke with Arthur curled around him. He carded his hand through Arthur’s hair, and the sleeping man grinned in his sleep.

He couldn’t imagine running from this.


End file.
